Mordraud, Book One

by Fabio Scalini

  The first to suggest the idea was a foot-soldier. A veteran, a man who’d spent half of his life in the Rampart camp. One morning he didn’t attend the customary roll-call, leaving in his tent a piece of bark simply and hastily carved with his knife.

  I’m going to try to reach Cambria. I don’t want to die in vain.

  To avoid condemning his comrades to death, he set out as soon as he realised he was ill. Cambria had to suffer what they were all experiencing. Word got around. Like a slow procession, the soldiers who discovered they were doomed made their own attempt to reach the Empire’s lands, to take as many people as possible to their graves with them. The captains informed Adraman, who immediately consulted Eldain. The old nobleman seemed even more elderly than he should have. He’d grown thin, and was losing his hair at an alarming rate. Adraman wasn’t sure whether he ought to be more dismayed at that vision or at the news he brought with him.

  “What should we do? The plague’s spreading and we can’t contain it!” he’d said to his friend that evening, as they dined together in his lodgings.

  “Can’t we carry on confining the sick to the villages?”

  “Not for much longer. We’ve done everything possible...”

  “What would you do?”

  “You’re the unfortunate one who has to decide, Eldain...” Adraman had sighed.

  “Not always. I repeat, what would you do?”

  Eldain’s words rang off-key to him, but he lacked the time to ponder on this. “I’d leave them to decide. When it boils down to it, it’s their own free choice, if they want to feel useful through their deaths.”

  “But it’s a despicable way to strike our enemy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, it is, but on the other hand... they did do the same to us,” was the reply from Adraman.

  Eldain went on in an even wearier voice. “A lot of innocent people will pay the price.”

  “The Long Winter slaughtered our population too.”

  “I understand.”

  Eldain had uttered nothing more. Adraman had to decide alone what action to take. And he did, not without feeling himself die inside.

  The revenge of the infected was no longer opposed. A steady and unseemly sea of desperate victims began flowing towards Cambria’s borders, mingling with the civilians and concealing themselves in the forests and fields.

  Finally came the news all had been waiting for, be it with joy or pain.

  The first outbreaks had been registered in the Imperial city.

  ***

  Dunwich couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The battalion was advancing towards the main camp near the Rampart, to swell the Imperial Army’s might, now shrunk to a faint glimmer. The provinces were crumbling into chaos, riddled with revolts sparked by hunger and fuelled by the weapons Cambria itself had placed in the farm labourers’ hands, to defend themselves against outlaws and rabid animals. Asaeld had stationed more men in the towns and city in upheaval, but their numbers never seemed to suffice. The front had become one of the least perilous places on the continent, compared to the major roads and the woods around the capital. Loralon had nonetheless stamped his foot in demanding the assaults on Eldain be revived, so Dunwich had received direct orders from the Emperor to gather together as many soldiers as possible and return to guarding the Rampart. It was the first time he found himself in agreement with his ruler, yet this failed to make him feel any better. The Empire’s head was empty and rang out mutely at every chime.

  They hadn’t run into any challenging trouble, except for the odd cluster of refugees who, instead of fleeing, had attacked the back ranks, armed merely with teeth and nails. People driven mad by starvation. If that was the state of the Alliance, then perhaps the Long Winter had achieved the desired effect, he concluded as he sought something tangible to cling to.

  However, just a few days after his arrival at the front, the situation grew somewhat strange.

  That morning, as his men advanced in compact formation along the road leading east, they came up against a party of rebels who were more organised than usual. A motley mix of haggard soldiers, women, and gnarled old men. A desperate pack of a hundred or so armed with blunt and rusty swords, clubs, scythes and billhooks.

  What astounded him was that he saw them take the initiative and attack first.

  Dunwich charged at the head of his cavalry, attempting to disperse the group, but the improvised rebels seemed unscathed by fear. He’d never witnessed anything so senseless. Instead of pursuing self-preservation, those shabby warriors threw themselves on his troops, indifferent to the lances and swords skewering them. Some focused merely on biting the horses’ legs or the soldiers’ limbs here and there.

  “Sir, what should we do?!” yelled one of the regiment captains, as he goggled with unbelieving eyes. Slaying those people was so easy it was sickening. They themselves pushed forwards to be slaughtered, even in exchange for just one well-placed bite.

  “Retreat! Bring up the infantry!” Dunwich replied, guiding his cavalry alongside the bulk of the army. He was sure the rebels would slink off with their tails between their legs when they saw the wall of steel advance.

  Yet things worsened.

  The foot-soldiers moved forwards, poleaxes at the ready, mowing down the mass of desperate attackers like needles penetrating butter. Yet no one backed away. Dunwich was shocked to see the women push ahead first, pelting Cambria’s soldiers with curses and insults. They tried to get close enough to pounce on the troops’ mouths and bite off their lips. They all died, without exception, but some succeeded in completing their grisly task. Dunwich had to look away as he watched a hairless old man with skin cracked like clay baked in the sun: on being run through by a poleaxe, he pulled himself along its wooden handle to spew his blood all over the terrified lad butchering him. A wave of retching split Dunwich’s stomach, which was usually immune to battle scenes. But that was no battle. It was like being in an abattoir.

  Luckily the clash was soon over. He’d lost a dozen or so men in all, but many more had suffered small injuries, scratches, bites or little more. He gave the order to proceed, only after burying that dismal clan’s bodies among the trees of the forest, and reached the front after another six days’ trekking.

  The army hadn’t attacked in many days, awaiting direct orders. Dunwich made the various necessary arrangements and escorted the wounded to the healers’ marquee, then retired to his old tent, in the officers’ zone. The atmosphere was relaxed and peaceful. The lookouts had seen a myriad of fires burning in the distance, and from these rose coils of black stinking smoke. The rebels were purging themselves of the dead brought by the Long Winter, and it was a good sign. It meant the Rampart was lightly manned, as had also happened for Cambria. Dunwich spent the evening alone, studying the maps of the local land, to refresh his memory and to kill time. He hadn’t been on the field in months, but he could recall its every detail perfectly. It was his first time as commander, and he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.

  ‘I’ve come a long way...’ he mused, toying with the wooden miniatures of the infantry. ‘And you, Mordraud? Are you still alive? Have you become someone? A captain, a general?’

  ‘Are you dead?’

  He didn’t often think about his brothers, and he’d given up on any plans of tracing them for some time now. All his attempts had failed miserably. His family’s disappearance was a mystery he hadn’t managed to unravel – which left him with a bitter taste in his mouth every time his attention homed in on it. He didn’t nurture a full-blown hatred for Mordraud, or rather, not any longer. It was more similar to a depressing wistfulness. However outstanding he may be in his career, Dunwich could feel he had gaping flaws in terms of human relations. If he’d shown more interest in his family, if he’d returned to visit his mother more often? He dropped off to sleep striving to cast out those futile thoughts.

  The following morning, he summoned all the regiment captains so he could take the pulse of the troops’
morale. What he heard put him in an excellent mood.

  “The Alliance has partially vacated the Rampart, and hasn’t ventured beyond the border once,” reported the head of the lookouts, as he spread the table with a series of documents where he’d recorded the most recent events. Not many – excellent. Eldain apparently had major concerns at home, ones that even prevented him from making the most of that great opportunity. Now that Cambria had gone back to fattening its ranks at the front, the rebels had permanently lost that single and fleeting advantage.

  “The number of refugees has mushroomed, but we’re still keeping them under control with not too much effort,” the chief guard confirmed. “In fact, most of them don’t even attempt to hide themselves in the woods. Our soldiers flush them out before they can disperse beyond the front.”

  “And our men?”

  “Morale’s high, sir. Very high.”

  “Why’s that?! Are they glad to fight?”

  “No, they’re glad you’ve been appointed to go on directing operations!”

  “Hmm? I don’t understand...” Dunwich admitted.

  “Well, rumours are circulating among the men... about that poisoned supper...”

  The guard nodded with the others present. It was evidently a well-known episode talked about by all.

  “So?!” inquired Dunwich, vaguely irritated. He didn’t like to recall that awful evening. Many Lances had died and he’d been as sick as a dog.

  “You were the only one to survive...”

  “What are you getting at?!”

  “The men believe you’re blessed by the Gods. They often call you The True Lance.”

  Dunwich’s eyes widened in surprise. That silly nickname again. Was that honestly what the men thought of him? Who’d started those rumours? Unsettled by that unwanted fame, he abruptly changed the subject and went to illustrating the attack plans he’d construed. The captains discussed how to divide up the various duties, and then dismissed. The situation was positive at last. The traitors at the Empire’s heart had been uncovered, Asaeld had more freedom in his choices. The first assault on the Rampart was scheduled for the following week.

  The days slipped by slowly and tiresomely. Dunwich inspected the units, but couldn’t oust from his mind that story he’d heard the day he called the meeting. He’d survived the poisoning by chance. At most because he’d been quick-witted enough to use an effective resonance. But there was nothing more to it. That story about the Gods and The Chosen One made him uncomfortable. He found it somewhat ridiculous that some superior entity was watching over him. He’d have much preferred to be famous for his abilities than due to some folklore belief. While visiting the various battalions’ tents, mentally going over the different strategies and assessing whether he had enough men to put these plans into action, he noticed something. Each day, scores of soldiers consulted the healers, complaining about ailments and pains of every sort – a lot more than was usual. Many were certainly cowards hoping to shirk their duties and avoid fighting, but many more did indeed look awful. Dunwich convinced himself it was just an outbreak of ‘flu, probably due to the damp rising up from the soil still sodden from the distant snows of the Long Winter. In any case, nothing to be worried about.

  Two days prior to the attack, a messenger from the healers shook him roughly out of his sleep. Dunwich awoke especially cross at the boy’s cheek, but his attitude changed as soon as he heard what he had to say.

  “The infirmary marquees are under siege!”

  “Have the rebels attacked in the middle of the night?!” Dunwich asked as he already groped beside the bed for his sword.

  “No, it’s our men... It’s seething with sick people out there!” the errand boy replied, quaking. Dunwich got dressed in all haste and raced outside. The night was a clear calm one, and particularly warm. A last taste of summer before the autumn.

  The camp was in turmoil. Hundreds of soldiers thronged around the healers’ tents, heedless of their captains’ angry cries. The guards had formed a human barrier to prevent them all from streaming in at once, but they were straining to hold them back. The men all showed similar symptoms: dry ashen skin, blood at the mouth, and glazed eyes. He’d seen many consult the doctors during the previous days, when they seemed simply under the weather but nonetheless in adequate health.

  Dunwich noted with chilling astonishment that many of the men who’d journeyed to the front with him ten days earlier, and who’d been wounded in the scuffle with the rebel horde, showed the same symptoms.

  “An epidemic...” murmured a shocked Dunwich.

  “What should we do, sir?!” the chief guard asked frantically. A rather rustic man by the name of Rucon, he’d been in charge of keeping order for at least a decade. And since Dunwich had known him, he’d never seen him flustered, not even once. Before that night.

  “Why are they behaving like this?! Why are they flooding the infirmary?”

  “We don’t know, sir! They were complaining all evening, said they felt utterly dreadful. The healers tried to make them feel better with their brews, but it was hopeless...”

  “Can’t they treat them?” asked Dunwich, clutched by fear.

  “The healers can’t even work out what’s wrong! A few patches on their backs plus sharp shooting pains!”

  Dunwich spotted three members of his personal unit separate off from the swarm of sick soldiers. Three Lances, with a certain experience to their credit despite their youth. They seemed distraught and out of their minds. They tried to grip onto him but, out of instinct, Dunwich unsheathed his sword and kept them at bay.

  “Captain, help us!” one of them pleaded. “We don’t want to die! Tell the healers to do something!”

  “Who said that you’re going to die?! Now control yourselves! THAT’S AN ORDER!”

  “You don’t understand!” yelled a Lance, his eyes wide in panic. “We’ve seen the tents, those of the mercenaries east of the camp! They said nothing because they were afraid they’d lose their jobs! But we saw!”

  “What did you see?! Damn it all, behave like Lances, for love of the Gods!” Dunwich burst out in rage. But his sword wasn’t lowered. Just as a precaution.

  “They’re all dying! Their skin’s crumbing, they’ve gone blind, and they’re shitting and vomiting blood!”

  “What orders did you give the mercenary regiments before I arrived?” he asked Rucon, already fearing the reply. “What duties were theirs?!”

  “Well... we sent them to intercept the rebel refugees...” chomped the bewildered soldier.

  Dunwich felt the night sink down onto his shoulders. The constant fires burning on the horizon. The mad fury of the desperate wretches who’d attacked them. The refugees who’d made no attempt to flee.

  “They were simply set on infecting us... They’ve brought their plague among our men!”

  And it didn’t stop there.

  “THEY WANT TO REACH CAMBRIA!” Dunwich shouted. “Give orders to guard the whole border with Eld, from tonight! The assault’s called off! IS THAT CLEAR?!”

  “But sir...” Rucon attempted.

  “Don’t question it! Follow your orders!”

  “But what should we do with the soldiers...”

  Dunwich looked about for something he could climb on. He spied a cart of barrels, and clambered on top. The crowd wasn’t too numerous yet. He had to earn himself some time.

  “LISTEN TO ME!” he yelled to the soldiers mobbing the tents. He had to yell several times before he could catch their attention, but in the end he tamed the bedlam.

  “There isn’t room for everyone, so make your way CALMLY towards the southern zone, group up there with the members from your regiment and take yourselves a tent! All of you stay inside and wait for the healers, who will come and examine you one by one! Staying outside and exerting yourselves will do nothing but worsen your condition!”

  “Dunwich, the archers’ accommodation is there in the south...” Rucon whispered, leaning up on the barrels.

 
; “Then go and notify them and get them away as swiftly as possible! They’re not to waste time gathering their possessions. Tell them all to bring only their bows and arrows!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Rucon ran off with a couple of his men. They had to hurry. The sick soldiers had taken Dunwich’s order well, responding with unconditional faith in his words. They really must admire him immensely... More than he’d ever imagined.

  ‘If they knew I’m merely quarantining them while I wait for a better idea...’ he thought sullenly. Then he remembered another problem. Even more pressing than the other perhaps.

  “Rucon, WAIT!” he cried to the head guard, who got his men to carry on while he turned back. The section captains were leading the ill away, organising them in units. They endeavoured to bide their time, to ensure the tents would already be empty upon their arrival.

  “What is it, sir?!”

  “Call together fifty or so of your men, I want your best... And we’ll make for the mercenaries’ sector,” Dunwich told him in a glum shadow of a voice. “And bring all the torches you can find.”

  ***

  Deanna was seated on the sill of the window looking out over the villa’s rear courtyard. It was open and let in the acrid odour of the fires lighted outside the town’s perimeter. They hadn’t burnt out since the first day. She’d fastened a scented handkerchief around her face to combat the stench, but it wasn’t particularly effective. The flames echoed on the walls of the houses, and the flickering reflected off the window panes. It was hard to sleep at night, with that dancing crimson halo. But what affected her most was that it was extremely uncomfortable to stay lying down with that swollen round belly.

  There wasn’t long to go now. She’d got to the point of suffering every slightest strain. Her legs were puffed up, her back couldn’t hold her on her feet for long, and she was always famished. Many foods she’d never been fond of, such as liver or horse steak, now had her craving them. And she was much more willing in bed. Only with Adraman, since Mordraud hadn’t come home for a good while. She was rediscovering her husband – something she’d never ever imagined possible.